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When all this was over, she was going to have to go on without him. And her memories of him and how this ended were the final gift he could give her.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll talk to Gus.”
The tension that eased out of her gave him a surge of strength, a shot of resolve.
“Thank you.” With a gentle hand, she stroked his back. “Thank you…”
Memories of the beginning of them returned, and he smiled. “Remember when we used to joke I had no sense of humor?”
She sniffled, and then laughed a little. “I was the one who said you had one. You were the guy who thought you had a congenital comic deficit.”
“Spoken like a true biologist.” Daniel gathered her hand in his own, her trembling stopping as their palms and fingers merged. “Well, I can’t think of anything unfunnier than this.”
“Is that a joke,” she said roughly.
A bad one, he thought to himself.
Then he recalled how she had once laughed. “Knock, knock.”
Another sniffle, and then she wiped under her eyes with her free hand. “Who’s there.”
“Boo.”
“Boo who?”
Daniel eased over onto his side and squeezed her hand. Looking into her glowing whiskey eyes, he said sincerely, “Don’t cry. I’ll always love you… even when I’m gone.”
As her tears intensified, she took a shuddering breath. “You were supposed to do a punch line that fell flat. Not one that leveled me.”
“Well, as cheesy goes, it’s just north of a dad joke.” He coughed and tried to hide the sound by talking through the grab of his throat. “But I do love you, Lydia Susi. And I always will. Even if my body gives out, that’s the eternity I’m going to give you, ’kay?”
His beautiful wolven nodded and then pressed her lips to his. Which was what you did when you had loads of words to communicate… and no voice with which to say them.
“I love you, too,” she choked out.
FIVE
IN THE CENTERcore of her mansion, in a study that doubled as a bulletproof panic room that was capable of withstanding a chemical weapons attack as well as one involving conventional bombs, C.P. Phalen hung up her secured landline, but kept her hand on the receiver. Feeling as though she should do something, anything, she released her hold and turned her leather chair around to the floor-to-ceiling, reinforced glass wall behind her desk. Nothing to see, given the hour.
Not like she would have been able to focus on much, anyway—
“Hello. Anybody home?”
With a jerk, she twisted back around and grabbed the front of her throat. “Jesus!”
“I’m not trespassing.” Gus St. Claire thumbed over his shoulder. “Your door was open, and I’ve just said your name three times in a row. My next move was to start singing—a travesty you’ve saved us both from enduring.”
C.P. blinked. And in spite of the fact that her head of research and development was speaking English to her, she had to sift through the four languages she was fluent in to figure out which one to reply with.
Gus put his hands on his hips. “So you’ve been told the results, huh. And about how he’s not changing his mind about the trial.”
As her eyes shot to the phone, Gus went over to the bar that was set up underneath her favorite orange-and-yellow Mark Rothko.
“Oh, my God, Phalen,” he said over his shoulder, “I would love a fucking drink. Thank you. You’re a great hostess, anybody ever tell you that?”
With a theatrical show, he spooned some ice cubes into a squat glass and doused the collection with enough Herradura Suprema to put out a good-sized fire. He drank at least half of the tequila on his way to sit in the chair on the opposite side of her desk, but no problem. He had the prescience to bring the bottle with him.
Setting down the fountainhead of his refills, he crossed his legs ankle to knee.
